Chapter 15 Valentina #2
They exchange a look. Sunglasses shifts his stance. Cigarette takes a drag, exhales slowly.
“Wait,” he mutters, and disappears inside.
I stand there on the concrete, the wind pulling at the loose strands of hair around my face, my heart a steady drum in my throat. I keep my expression neutral, my breathing even.
A minute stretches.
Two.
The door opens.
Cigarette returns, stepping aside.
“Boss says you can come in,” he says. “Alone.”
“Wasn’t planning on bringing a parade,” I mutter, and step past him.
Inside, the air is cooler, the echo of footsteps ringing off concrete floors. The hallway is long, lit by fluorescent strips that flicker in places. Doors line the walls—some closed, some open to reveal glimpses of weight benches, tables, piles of boxes.
Killian meets me halfway down the corridor.
He leans against the wall like he’s in no hurry, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, tank top showcasing tattooed arms. There’s a lazy, predatory ease to him that never fooled me; the smarter the predator, the more relaxed the posture.
“Torres,” he says smoothly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You have something that belongs to me,” I say.
“Correction,” he says. “Someone.”
I hold his gaze. “Bring her out.”
He grins. “You’re not exactly in a position to make demands.”
“I’m in a position to decide how hard this escalates,” I say. “You’ve been wanting a meeting with me? Congratulations. You have one. Use it. Or we kill each other and make the cops’ job easier.”
He studies me for a long breath, eyes flicking over my face, my posture, my empty hands.
“You’ve grown a spine,” he says. “I like it.”
“I’ve always had one,” I reply. “You just weren’t worth bracing it for.”
His grin sharpens.
He tilts his head toward a door at the end of the hall. “She’s in there.”
He doesn’t move to block me. He doesn’t try to grab me. That in itself is a message: I don’t need to. His territory, his rules, his confidence that in this building, he’s the one holding all the levers.
Fine.
I walk past him.
Each step toward that door feels like walking toward a fault line. The closer I get, the more the air seems to hum—like everything about this moment has been building for longer than I realized.
I knock once and push.
The room inside used to be an office, probably. There’s a desk shoved against one wall, a shattered computer monitor, a cracked whiteboard with old marker ghosts on it. Now it’s mostly empty, except for the girl leaning against the far wall, arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold.
Talia.
She looks… wrong here.
Or maybe she looks too right.
Her dark hair is braided back from her face, exposing the lines of her jaw, the slope of her nose. She’s wearing a black Viper hoodie that’s too big for her, sleeves covering her hands. Her legs are bare, bruises faint along her shins. Her eyes are clear. Too clear.
“Talia,” I say.
She looks up.
For a second, a flicker of something like the old Talia—the one who trailed after Asher, who rolled her eyes at his overprotectiveness, who laughed too loudly at Jackie’s stupid jokes—moves across her face.
Then it’s gone, replaced by something steadier. Harder. A quiet, contained fire.
“Val,” she says, her voice coming out slightly panicked.
“I came to take you home,” I say.
“This is my home,” she replies calmly.
My jaw tightens. “No. It’s not.”
She pushes off the wall, crossing the room with slow, measured steps. She stops a few feet from me, head tilted slightly, studying me like I’m the one who’s changed.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “Whatever he promised you, whatever you think you’re owed—you don’t have to pay it like this.”
“You think I’m here because of Killian?” she asks softly.
“Aren’t you?”
She laughs. It’s a small sound. Tired. “This isn’t about him.”
“Then what is it about?” I demand. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you climbed out of my window and ran straight into the arms of the people who’ve been trying to kill Xavier and dismantle the very club, the very family that raised you.”
Her eyes flash. “My family?”
“Yes,” I say. “Your family. Asher. Zay. Xavier. Me. Jackie. The club—”
“The club is the reason my family is dead,” she cuts in.
The words hit like a slap.
I blink. “What?”
Her jaw works. “You ever wonder why I never talk about my background?”
“I figured you didn’t want to,” I say, thrown. “That’s your right.”
She shakes her head, a bitter smile twisting at her mouth. “I didn’t talk about it because it didn’t matter. Not compared to what came after.” She steps closer, her voice tightening around something old and raw. “My twin mattered. And Marcus fed him to the Vipers.”
The name lands hard. “Marcus,” I breathe, barely aware I’ve said it aloud.
Images stir at the edges of my memory—faint at first, then sharper, pushing against the walls I’ve kept around them.
Marcus in the alley with that too-bright look in his eyes; Marcus leaning in, all heat and cruelty; Marcus’ fingers closing around my wrist with that awful certainty that he could do whatever he wanted.
His laugh. His gaze. The way he made my skin crawl.
Talia watches me with a humorless curve to her lips. “You got him out of my life, Valentina. I should have thanked you earlier.”
My back stiffens. “Talia—”
She leans in before I can finish, her breath brushing the edge of my jaw as she whispers, “Because of you, I finally get to avenge my twin.”
The words strike with surgical precision. The air thins. I pull back sharply, heart thundering. “What are you talking about?”
And that’s when the memories begin to loosen—slowly, then rapidly, as if some inner lock finally gives way.
Neon light flickering through a cracked window.
Rain dampening the air.
Marcus’ hand at my throat—not squeezing, but applying just enough pressure to show he could. His voice at my ear, low and taunting. My pulse hammering. My mind going white.
Then the metal pipe.
The weight of it. The cold bite of the steel against my palm.
The way my arm moved—clumsy, terrified, reactive.
The sound when I connected. That sickening, wet crack that somehow didn’t echo. It landed heavy, final, in a way my nightmares have tried to hint at but never fully grasped.
Marcus’ eyes widening.
The collapse of his body.
The widening pool on the concrete.
My stomach twists violently. I sway and catch myself against the desk, breath dragging in uneven pulls.
“I—” I can’t find the words. “What?”
“You can tell Asher,” she says quietly. “Tell him I’m gone. Tell him I chose this. Tell him this was my decision.” She glances toward the hallway where I can feel Killian’s attention like a weight pressing against my spine. “It’ll break him. But at least it will be honest.”
“Talia,” I force out, trying to steady my voice, “I’m not leaving you here.”
She shakes her head slowly. “You don’t have a choice. Because if you try to pull me out of here, I’ll tell everyone exactly what you did to Marcus.”
We lock eyes—two girls standing on a fault line neither of us asked to be born onto, both of us responsible now for widening it.
Every instinct in me screams to grab her, drag her out, carry her away even if it means fighting my way through the entire Viper house.
But Killian’s presence looms behind me, and unseen eyes track my every shift.
Asher’s voice echoes in my mind: Come back. No matter what.
If I force this, we die. Or worse—live long enough for the war to begin exactly how the Vipers want it.
I straighten, each breath thick and metallic. “You don’t have to do this,” I tell her, one last time. “Whatever revenge you think you’re owed, there are other paths.”
“This is where I belong,” she says, steady as steel. “You had your choice. This is mine.”
The walk out feels different—like the air has grown heavier, the walls narrower.
Each step reminds me how thin the line between control and collapse really is.
The corridor stretches too long, the lights too bright, the air too warm.
I keep my posture straight, my hands relaxed, my pace steady, performing calm even as something inside me churns.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
Outside, daylight blinds me. I blink hard, forcing my eyes to adjust. My bike sits at the curb exactly where I left it, chrome glinting. I make it halfway across the street before the truth, the full truth, slams into me.
I killed Marcus.
The memories continue unfolding with relentless clarity: Marcus’ fingers digging into my cheek, the bruise that bloomed the next day; the alley wall rough against my back; the flash of metal in Marcus’ hand; my fingers closing around the pipe because there was nothing else; the moment before I swung when I thought I wouldn’t survive; the impact; the sound; the silence after.
My knees nearly buckle. I catch myself on the bike’s handlebar, gripping it until my knuckles ache.
The panic doesn’t come like a wave. It comes like ice—slow, creeping, methodical—chilling every excuse I’ve used to survive the blank spaces in my memory.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t remember.
I didn’t have a choice.
Maybe all of that is true.
None of it changes the fact that Talia knows.
That the Vipers know.
And that Xavier—
Xavier will never forgive me.
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